


The End (of Everything, she says)

by seatbeltdrivein



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, dub-con, hp_spring_fling 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-14
Updated: 2010-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 22:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are thousands of ways to break a man, and Bellatrix Lestrange knows them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End (of Everything, she says)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU from HBP onwards (canon compliant through OoTP) and takes place the summer before Harry's sixth year.

There was blood on her hands, and Bellatrix wiped it on the woman’s face, watching her twist and grimace, unable to pull away with her hands so tightly bound to the wall. “Where is he?” She asked, the thousandth echo. “Where is Potter?”

“I won’t say,” she echoed back, but her voice was wavering and wet, Bellatrix was pleased to note. The woman cringed away when Bellatrix took a step closer, curling into herself and pressing against the wall. Bellatrix smiled.

*

Potter was furious, but it melted to fear quickly enough. “What happened?” Barely a whisper, but Bellatrix didn’t have to strain much to hear him.

“Poor baby Potter,” she cooed, leaning against his shoulder, laughing when he flinched away. “Don’t you remember?” It had been a thing of beauty, really. She was very nearly disappointed when he shook his head. “The kitchen,” she prompted, pushing him from the bed. Potter opened his mouth, closed it, and skittered out the door like a frightened dog, and Bellatrix was struck with a sudden feeling of mirth as she remembered _another_ dog, one who was very nearly a human, who ran scared as a boy from his mother but laughed as death grabbed hold of him.

Potter had found what was in the kitchen, if his shriek of despair was anything to go by. Bellatrix made her way after him, flicking her wand absentmindedly at the perfectly hung—_unmoving_—pictures in the hall, smiling as the glass cracked and wooden frames crumbled to saw dust.

“What did you do?” Potter was whimpering pathetically as she came down the stairs, and she sneered in response.

“Nothing, of course,” she said, laughing like Cissy did at her tea parties. This was her party, and Potter would be obliged. She was nothing, if not a gracious host.

“Nothing?” Potter echoed brokenly. “How—how is this _nothing_? You’ve KILLED THEM!” His rage was nearly palpable, the lights in the tiny kitchen flickering dangerously.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say this was nothing,” she said. “But as I said, _I did nothing_. What reason would there be for me to do anything at all, when you’d done the job for me?” His rage deflated, and the angry tears stilled.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. She swept her arm grandly, and it accidentally knocked the arm hanging off the table, sending it to the ground with a loud, wet _thunk_. Potter stared in horror, his mouth moving and moving in the same shape over and over. _No. No. No._ But it was and he did. “You were rather inspiring, I think.” She added. He collapsed, his knees landing in a puddle of blood and something vaguely fleshy. If she remembered correctly, it had once been a part of the woman. _If_ she remembered correctly.

“How?” He croaked, his face wet. “I—this isn’t possible.” He looked ill.

“I couldn’t say,” she said vaguely, and his face screwed up as if wondering whether she just _couldn’t say_ or didn’t know. Or maybe—maybe _both_. She smiled in a way she believed might be mysterious—Snape had taught her, whether he knew it or not—and cooed at him, collapsing on the ground next to the boy and wrapping him in her arms. He didn’t resist, and she pressed his face into her breasts, patting his back.

“I—” She could barely understand him for his sobbing. “Kill me!” He pulled back, spreading his arms. “_Kill me_. I knew I—I’m just like HIM. Voldemort, it’s—_Kill me_!” He was begging nonsensically, and she was tempted. Instead, she pulled out her wand, tapping it to his forehead and laughing when he slumped over, unconscious, into the puddle of blood and human refuse.

*

Potter didn’t wake up for two days, and by then, Bellatrix had him exactly where she wanted him. His eyes flickered and the sinewy muscles in his shoulders and arms twitched visibly as he tugged unconsciously against the manacles around his wrists. She watched him return to consciousness with bated breath, crouching down to meet him face to face.

“Potter,” she said gleefully when his eyes opened, unclouded.

“You,” he spat angrily. “Where am I?”

“Here,” Bellatrix smiled and cupped his face with both hands. The boy snarled, twisting and wriggling helplessly against her touch. “Now, now,” she cooed, pulling his shattered glasses off and tossing them away. “Is that how guests act?”

“I’m _not_ your guest, you sick bitch!” His voice was crackling with despair, and Bellatrix just smiled in return, giving his face one last pat before settling herself on the floor across from him.

“It doesn’t matter what _you_ want. You’re for _me_ now.” Her lips were a dangerous curve, and the boy’s face went a sickly white.

“Voldemort—”

Bellatrix hissed, her palm smacking against his cheek and echoing in the small, stone room.

“_Do not speak his name_!” She howled, clawing her fingers into his filthy, sweaty hair and tugging harshly. “Filthy half-blood,” she muttered. A small dribble of blood trailed down from Potter’s lips, and she ducked in, her tongue smearing it away. He jerked his face away, his eyes wide and his mouth moving furiously. “The _Dark Lord_,” she said pointedly, “gave you to me.” _A gift_, he’d said, _for my most loyal servant._

Never in her life had she been prouder.

“You’re sick,” Potter said, and while Bellatrix couldn’t really argue, she certainly didn’t care.

“Foolish boy,” she crooned, petting him softly, pulling at his dirty shirt. “You’ll never see the light of day again.” She waited, watching the anger fester behind his eyes. “Just,” she continued, “like your poor, dead _muggles_.” And with a great satisfaction, she watched the light and will bleed from the boy’s eyes. “You deserve this,” she said, and he nodded.

But the fire, while stifled, was still there, sparking just below the surface, and Bellatrix knew better than _anyone_ just how to put it out.

*

The castle belonged to her Lord, but he’d been specific in that Bellatrix and the boy would remain there. It didn’t take her more than a day to discover how the dark nights in the rotting, decaying castle affected the boy. He shook from the cold, pulling against his restraints. She would watch from the dark, quietly, and wait for him to ask for freedom. Of course, the boy would rather die than ask her for anything, and he’d told Bellatrix as much.

But that didn’t stop her from waiting. He would break, just as all the others did. He would break and weep and beg, and she would collect the pieces in her hands and hold them forever.

*

The first time he broke left Bellatrix feeling elated, the boy’s piteously stark face smeared with tears and mucous.

“Please,” his voice, barely a whisper, sent shivers up her spine and into her brain, the needy whimper burrowing into the crevices of her mind to be replayed over and over and over. “_Please_.”

“Please what?” She’d kept him awake for the entire six days he’d been hers, feeding him charred meat and stale bread once a day and laughing as he’d struggled and gagged, desperate to keep it down. “Please…more?” She sauntered closer, leaving the doorway, and sank to the ground beside him, her nose wrinkling at the stink emanating from him. He said nothing, his mouth a firm line. She rested a hand on his bare chest, feeling the flesh twitch briefly beneath it. Her nails dug in, and she tugged five fine red lines down his torso, watching the blood bubble up. He whimpered, and Bellatrix frowned. “Is that all?” She murmured, her lips at his ear. “I’m sure your muggles gave you more than _that_.”

Potter choked out a dry sob, his forehead falling onto her shoulder. “I—tired,” he croaked out. “Please.”

“Of course, love,” she cooed, nuzzling the unmarked skin of his neck, her teeth dragging briefly, sharply against it. “You’d like some water, as well, I’m sure?” He nodded, groaning pathetically. His whole body shook, and Bellatrix wrapped him in her arms and hummed.

The boy barely acknowledged the movement as she shifted him to lean against one arm, pulling her wand from one of the long, draping sleeves of her cloak and flicking it at the doorway. She’d come prepared, just in case, as she had since the very first day, and the small bowl of water floated to her, smacking lightly into her palm.

The boy didn’t need to be instructed. Bellatrix, on her knees, pushed him up, and his mouth opened and closed around the rim of the bowl. “Don’t spill,” she whispered, pushing his head forward when he tried to move away and breathe. “Don’t you spill a drop, or there’ll be no more.”

He didn’t spill a drop, that day or the next or the next.

*

Bellatrix found it fitting that her Lord decided to visit at night nearly a month after she’d claimed Potter. The boy hated nights the most, and the boy needed _her_ to keep his eyes open. As they both knew, terrible things lurked in the dark.

“You’ve done so well, Bellatrix,” her Lord said, his mouth curving upwards and his eyes glowing. The boy was on his knees, his arms unbound for the ‘special occasion’ and his weak, filthy hands gripping the back of Bellatrix’s skirts with a desperate strength she’d not thought possible in his condition. And his mouth, always the same. _No. No. No._

“Don’t be rude to my Lord, love,” Bellatrix spoke sweetly as she wrenched him onto his feet by his grimy hair. He wasn’t too tall for her to wrap her arms around him and rest her chin on his shoulder, her breasts pressed to his bare back. “Say hello,” she said, scolding.

“Hello,” he muttered, looking at the floor. Her Lord looked so pleased that Bellatrix told herself the boy deserved a reward.

“You have truly exceeded my expectations,” her Lord shook his head, and Bellatrix might have thought he was surprised had she not known just _who_ he was.

“Anything for my Lord,” she said eagerly, and the boy nodded when she jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

“Then I will leave him in your clearly capable hands, Bellatrix. Keep him close.”

Bellatrix swore she would never betray her Lord’s trust, and the boy nodded.

*

“You deserve a reward,” Bellatrix said, her hands creeping down the boy’s chest. “Our Lord was very pleased with you.” The boy nodded, and Bellatrix smiled at the wonderful time they’d had together. “Two months now,” she murmured. The boy nodded again.

“Two months,” he said back, nodding and nodding the same as he’d done since that night. She grabbed his chin and held it still, pressing her lips to his cheek.

“You’ve been so good,” she said. “Your muggles—” He shook his head harshly, wrenching his chin from her grip. She cooed softly, pressing her lips again to his cheek, to his chin, to his lips, feeling the dry flesh and licking it. “Don’t even think about them,” she breathed into his mouth. “Tell me,” she demanded. “Tell me you don’t.”

“I don’t think about them,” Potter said simply, and Bellatrix wondered if he even knew what he wasn’t thinking about.

“And what,” she pulled the filthy trousers, stained in his waste and in his wasted food, from his body, sliding her wand over the bruised, foul skin and watching the color return, the stink fade. “What _do_ you think about?”

His forehead wrinkled as if the question were far too difficult for him to process, but eventually, the answer came. “You,” he said earnestly.

“Such a good boy,” she spoke into his neck, nipping. She pushed her wand back into the sleeve and worked her hands on his hips, feeling the jutting bones with satisfaction. “You deserve a reward,” she said again. “What do you think about that?”

“All right,” he said. “I feel all right.” And when her hands slid to the heat between his thighs, the boy thought that there was nothing better than ‘all right’.

*

There had been some sort of spell. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at the massacred lump of meat that had once been three muggles. But it was gone now, and she _knew_ Potter was in the house. As she crept up the stairs, she could feel his magic pulsing in sleep. Pushing the door open, she sat down gently on the bed, smiling at a sudden stroke of brilliance. It would be perfect.

The boy stirred into consciousness as she shifted on the bed to grab his wand, his eyes blinking rapidly. When he noticed her, he shot up, the hand grabbing for his wand closing on empty air. Potter was furious, but it melted to fear quickly enough. “What happened?” Barely a whisper, but Bellatrix didn’t have to strain much to hear him.

Her Lord would be _so_ pleased.


End file.
